


The Castle in the Flat

by HardlyFair



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Case Fic, Castle in the Attic AU, Falling In Love, First Meetings, Fluff, Happy Ending, Humor, Knight John Watson, M/M, Magical Realism, Romance, Swords, canon compliant until there's magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-02-10 04:30:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18652939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HardlyFair/pseuds/HardlyFair
Summary: The castle is a strange gift and the figurine knight is a mystery. The flat is quiet.Then the kettle squeals.Only. It’s not the kettle. Because he’s just turned it on, and this sound came from the sitting room.Sherlock, very slowly, stops moving.





	1. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's a very pretty castle!"

  Sherlock gets the castle from a client.

  As some… strange form of payment.

  It’s pre-renaissance, with a large courtyard and tall, stone-patterned walls surrounding it. There are towers on each corner, and a gatehouse leading to the outer court. There’s a chapel, a split drawbridge that is held up, and deep divots meant to suggest there being a moat outside the castle walls. It's been expertly crafted out of rock and iron rivulets. 

  “It belonged to my grandmother. There’s rooms inside, for the figurines,” The sniveling teenager had said, looking at the castle on the tabletop, “I don’t really have much use for it.”

  “And what makes you think I do?” He didn’t see why he would need it, or even want it.

  Lestrade had stepped in towards the distraught girl, who’d just had the fantastically brutal murder of her father solved. “He means ‘thank you’,” Lestrade said, when in reality, Sherlock hadn’t meant any such thing.

  “And, the Golden Knight,” The girl murmured. She handed over a small, rectangular wooden box, like a casket. It could fit in the palm of Sherlock’s hand. He went to open it, but she slapped her hands over the box. Sherlock looked up at her with affront, holding back his comments on account of recent events and Lestrade's presence.

  “Um, it’s tradition. Family tradition. You open it alone.”

  “Alone? Why?”

  She smiled. Her eyes were still red when she looked down at the box and pulled her hand, nails chipping blue, away. She sniffed, and in her rough, nasally voice, went on, “I think it’s just the way he likes to meet people.”

  Sherlock pocketed the knight-box, unopened.

  “She did just have her father die,” Lestrade reminded him as he lugged the castle, mounted on a base of thick plywood, very old indeed and splintering in multiple places, up the steps of 221B. His shoulders strained under the material of his jacket. “The least - you could do - was take it--”

  Sherlock pulled off his leather gloves by the fingers, smacking them down onto the coffee table, then turned. Lestrade was having difficulty fitting the gigantic toy through the doorway. Sherlock couldn’t see the DI’s face past the walls and the towers. “I don’t have any reason to own such a thing,” He quipped, not lending aid. "It'll be thrown away by the end of the week by Mrs Hudson."

  “Could it teach you a thing or two about medieval castles? Looks pretty realistic-- _Christ_ \--” Lestrade tipped the castle one way, and the large castle began to slide off its base. He quickly righted it, and the monument went back to its place in the middle of the painted board. Finally, Lestrade, red in the face, managed to get the angle just right for the thing to fit through without breaking anything, scraping the wood polish off the door, or letting the castle topple off to the floor. “Jesus!” Lestrade exclaimed, lowering the thing to the rug.

  Sherlock frowned. “What are you doing? Don’t put it there.”

   Lestrade stood and cracked his back. “This thing must be made from real rock! Cement, at least. It weighs a ton, Sherlock.”

  “I don’t care how much it weighs, it’s an eyesore.”

  “It’s a very pretty castle!”

  “It’s right in front of the door!”

  Lestrade crossed his arms, the movement bunching the coat by his elbows, tapping his fingers delicately on it. He widened his stance, glowering at Sherlock. “I’m not picking it up again.”

  And so, it sat.

  Because Sherlock wasn’t going to try picking it up, either. He was not throwing out his back for that thing.

 

 

  The castle continued to be an eyesore and in the way of everything. Sherlock texted Lestrade upwards of seventy times to come and move it to at least the sitting room table. It may have been covered in papers and files and dirty plates that Mrs Hudson has chastised him about a hundred times, but Sherlock could… make space for it. 

  At the thought, he absentmindedly put a few lone pencils and one calligraphy pen into an empty wet teacup. The lip of it was so low that the utensils spilled out. Sherlock didn't replace them. Merely cursed them, and the castle, and Lestrade.

 

 

  He almost tripped over it when heading out for a late-night case.

  Always having the sneaking suspicion that Mycroft was involved when Lestrade called upon him, Sherlock was lost in thought when he pulled on his Belstaff and tried to exit through the sitting room, and his foot struck something. He stumbled and stepped back, rewarded with the sight, in the dark, of the solemn castle, the solemn towers, and the solemn painted plywood base.

  Sherlock stood for a moment, gloves sticking out of his pocket, and glowing mobile in his hands. He frowned pointedly.

  Really, he should’ve donated the thing to a blasted charity shop. After this case, he could likely convince Lestrade to pick it up again. 

  Sherlock stepped over the large castle with difficulty, even with long legs. He knocked off the roof of a tower with a misplaced ankle and sent it skittering into the courtyard. Pausing, he felt guilty for a moment before he realized the thing was supposed to be able to come off. He crouched to replace it atop the castle's tower, but not before sneaking a glance inside. It was still strewn with his papers and magazine clippings that had fluttered down from the flat's wall after the conclusion of his last case.

   The upstairs ‘rooms’ were visible underneath the roof, complete with tiny lamps and tables and beds. The same craftsman that built the base clearly had their hands in the internal structure. An incoming text sounded on his mobile, stirring Sherlock out of his wonderings. Sherlock replaced the roof, rose, and shut the door behind him, careful to not damage the castle or wake Mrs Hudson.

  He didn't think of the castle when he returned in the early hours of the morning, as he swept into the flat through the kitchen door, and fell asleep with his clothes on, sprawled out atop his duvet. 

 

 

  The first time Sherlock remembers the knight, it’s in his coat pocket.

  The long box finds his hand mid-deduction as he’s spouting to a clueless Lestrade, and an irritated Anderson and Sally Donovan. They’re all standing around a dead man in a long blonde wig, lying prone on the floor of the amphitheater's stage.

   Cold wood brushes his fingers. Sherlock stops mid-sentence, mouth open, identifying the object within a few moments, but it’s all the time Donovan needs.

  “Cat caught your tongue?” She asks, a grin full of teeth contrasting her dark lips.

  “Maybe he’s finally forgotten a line?” Anderson stage whispers to her.

  Lestrade rolls his eyes, “You two knock it off, yeah?”

  Sherlock solves the case, forgetting about the box once more.

  (The green eyeliner and shadow was the key, just like he’d been telling Donovan and Anderson.)

 

 

  Sherlock doesn’t open it for three more weeks.

 

 

  When he does, it’s early in the morning and the flat is cloaked in night. His current investigation had gone cold yesterday, an 18-year-old murder spree that seems to have been reignited in present-day London.

 _With_ evidence of the same killer. It's delightful. Harboring hatred and anger for that long is bound to give way to overkill and mistakes enough to catch them. His mind flies with ideas and the evidence of his mad process is scattered and spread around every surface and wall, with a large diagram of tube stations pinned to the wall over the sofa. 

   After picking up his coat from the back of his chair, Sherlock pauses. The weight is still the slightest bit off. Right. Of course. The box. Sherlock draws it out of the Belstaff's pocket and hangs it up. 

  The girl from the Langely case, the one who’d given him the castle and the box, had said that there were rooms in the castle, for the figurines. Sherlock had observed them when he'd accidentally knocked off the roof of a tower last month. But she’d only given him one figurine, the knight. Well, the box for him. _It_. Had there once been a set of them?

  Perhaps any companions to the knight in the unopened box have been lost. Sherlock wonders how, and then he doesn’t. Children are very good at losing things. When this belonged to infants, they might’ve bitten off heads or lost the tiny sculptures under armchairs. Any way put, this is the last one - the only one. Sherlock turns the box over in his hands, wondering at the smooth, polished panel and its small size. 

  Sherlock’s next project is to shove the coffee table up next to the sofa and fold the carpet over to push the castle across the floor of the sitting room. With great effort, it begins to slide, leaving long shallow scratches on the hardwood. It’s heavy, and it really is made of rock and wood and paint and carvings, because trying to push it is absolute _hell._ He folds the carpet back into place and successfully hides the scratches from anyone (name: Mrs Hudson, while dusting or attempting to force tea into him) who may walk into the sitting room. 

  But he gets it across the room, near the windows that face the street without too much noise or fuss but with a fair amount of sweat and exertion. Dust now floats around the room because of his stirrings of the unkept carpet, highlighted in the light pouring in from the streetlamps outside. 

  The flat is dark, otherwise. Sherlock sits on the ground before the castle. It must be a meter by a meter. Perhaps less, one way or the other, because Lestrade did after all manage to get it through the door, no thanks to Sherlock. The make-up of it is very well done, he can agree with Lestrade’s initial assessment. There are several tall pillars, made of stone and carved to look as though it’s composed of tiny, hand-laid bricks. The courtyard is dustily painted, with mock, empty stables half-hidden in shadow beneath the towers.

   Sherlock picks up the box. Smooths his hands over the polished wood. It’s unmarred. Very well taken care of. He wonders if sentiment is behind it, and then inwardly scoffs, because of course it is. It is always either sentiment or logic that allows things to be preserved, and since there is no logic to saving a figurine, then it is the former.

  He undoes the small clasp on one long side of the box. It’s really more of a case, and he’s irked he didn’t think of the more fitting word until just now. The insides are covered in crinkly, yellowed fabric, as if it were a casket, and in it rests a small figurine.

   He plucks the carving out.

  Surprisingly, like the girl said, it does feel like meeting someone. It’s a very little someone, granted, but it’s a little figurine that’s going to stay here with Sherlock.

  Sherlock furrows his brow, studying his train of thought with a touch of disgust. That was… appalling, frankly.

  He studies the doll, setting the case down.

  What is it carved in? Sherlock weighs it, then blinks, bringing the object closer to his face. He sniffs. Ah, lead. It is maybe two inches tall. It’s proportional to the massive size of the castle, however. To the very small figure, the castle really is a monument.

  It’s a standing man, his feet placed shoulder width apart. The knight is facing forward. The ruffled-looking hair is painted silvery blond. Sherlock decides it hasn’t been painted over, and the original forger made it so that this knight was to be depicted as a middle-aged man. How is that relatable to children?

  One arm is down at his side, the other is bent at the elbow with the hand resting on his hip, before the handle of a sword at his waist. Or. No. Where the handle is meant to be. The sword is missing from its scabbard. There was clearly meant to be one, given the small opening under the knight’s hand. Sherlock sets the knight down and picks up the case again, searching in the soft bed of cloth. Nothing but crumpled fabric. Sherlock retrieves the knight.

  The wrist of this arm is pushing back a dark cloak, revealing a stripe of iron riveted chainmail draped over a red shirt. His legs are clad in armor and high black boots with golden detail.

  The entire outfit is carved where it folds and curves and drapes, and painted to distinguish it from the rest of the figure.

  It’s not holding a helmet, but the length of the knight’s arms are covered in armor, Sherlock notices from the splotches of shiny grey, meant to convey the presence of metal.

  The face is also carved, not just painted on like some sort of Russian nesting doll. Sherlock can hardly make out the details in the dark. But he sees spots of blue, dry and empty and unfocused for the eyes, a small curve up of black and soft pink for a smirk.

  He tips the knight to look at the underside of the boots, but there is no signature. No emblem. Just the black soles. Sherlock decides to research armor so that he can tell whether this set is historically accurate or not. All in all, the paintwork and details are marvelous and realistic. Were he not touching it, Sherlock might’ve thought the knight’s cape was really cloth, it’s thin, delicate, and real.

  He places the knight in the courtyard, right in the middle. Brief pause. Sherlock adjusts it. “There,” He says quietly, accompanied with a faint spark of pride, because there’s no one here to see him, so what’s the harm? “Where’s your helmet gone, hm? And your sword?”

  The knight does not respond.

  Sherlock sniffs. That’s alright. Billy the skull never answers, either, but that doesn’t stop him from speaking with it.

 

 

   Sherlock pads his way into the kitchen in the late afternoon the following day. Well, it's the same day, but since he's slept for several hours (longer than usual), he deems it a different day. The table’s Bunsen burner is swiftly turned on, and he puts a vial full of blood over it in the metal clasps for no reason other than to watch it bubble as he sets the kettle on. Should Lestrade burst in, as he’s prone to, he’ll call it an experiment. 

  Lestrade could _text._ There’s no reason he should come to Sherlock’s _flat_. Really, it’s a wonder that he doesn’t have to remind the inspector of the continued existence of technology. When Sherlock turns on his mobile for the day, there haven't been any missed messages or calls. No new leads from Lestrade, then. Scotland Yard should find something soon. A spree killer from two decades ago can't hold back  _that_ long, can they? It's hardly been a day since Sherlock was immersed in old files and information at the station, but already the growing itch of boredom has crept into his brain. He can feel it just under his skin. 

  The silk dressing gown slips down his shoulders, bunching in folds in the crooks of his elbow. He doesn’t bother tying the sash around his waist, prefers to let it hang open while he walks around. It can make for a very dramatic effect, like his coat, when he’s moving around the flat. Without a case, he’s no reason to go out. So, he won’t. If food appears by way of Mrs Hudson, he'll consider eating it. If no food appears, he'll forget about eating until a headache sets in. Sherlock checks his mobile again. Still nothing. Turns on his ringer. 

  There’s a tin of chocolate biscuits somewhere here, which will work out until Mrs Hudson comes up later in the evening. Sherlock reaches for the cabinet with the tea boxes in them. He should start leaving them out on the counter like he does with his chemistry equipment, having to actually open something is annoying...

  The flat is quiet.

  Then the kettle squeals.

  Only. It’s _not_ the kettle. Because he’s just turned it on, and this sound came from the sitting room.

  Sherlock, very slowly, stops moving. He glances over his shoulder. His view of the door and the sofa is obstructed by the partial wall, but the two chairs by the hearth and the table are visible. Afternoon sunlight drifts in from behind the curtains. He draws in a deep breath, but he’s unable to scent an unfamiliar cologne or perfume. He should have heard the door creak, should have heard weight hit the stairs. Should have heard a hundred things that all would've alerted him to an intruder before said intruder was in his flat. 

  The blood boils.

   The gun - the gun he nicked off Lestrade on the occasion he was being exceptionally annoying - that’s in the bedroom, and he cannot give whatever may be in his sitting room any time to move and change position. The chairs have sharp legs if he can lift one off the ground silently and quickly enough to brandish as a weapon, and the kettle is hot or maybe he could light something on fire-- 

  The squeal comes again.

  Sherlock doesn’t recognize it - only tries to make sense of it. It sounded like rustic metal. Moving. Grinding. But he doesn’t own something that could make a noise like that by itself. He mentally searches for a weapon again, then, quietly, grabs the box of teabags, listening to the thin cardboard crumple in his fist. He’s an expert boxer. Whatever is in the flat, he’ll be fine.

  It’s funny. Sherlock never heard the doors open. The windows are locked. Street ones are too out in the open - the one in the kitchen is closed behind him.

  Carefully, Sherlock takes a step towards the sitting room. He’s had no shortage of attackers come into the flat looking to kill him before he becomes a problem, or for the revenge of him putting a relative, lover, or friend in prison. There was a memorable case involving a diamond that he turned down, and that earned him a swordsman swanning around gracelessly and trying to take off his head. Made for an interesting morning, at least. 

  Sherlock whips around the corner, brandishing the tea box. 

  There’s no one in the flat. No one behind the sofa, or in either of the armchairs, or crouched in the doorway. For good measure, Sherlock rushes upstairs to the spare bedroom, but it's empty. He double-checks the locks on the windows upstairs, and returns to the sitting room.  

  Sherlock crosses to the windows, pulling back the curtains and looking down the streets. No construction or roadwork, no one bumbling down the walk with something that could make the sound.

  Perhaps he’s going mad. It’s been a day since his case has picked up, and his fingers and mind prickle for distraction.

  Sherlock collects his half-empty package of cigarettes from the mantel and lights one, returning to his post by the window and his music stand. Silly to have grown so worked up over a sound in the flat. The building is old, Mrs Hudson is probably awake downstairs and puttering around and making some nonsensical batch of baked goods, and London is loud and ever-present. The concern over someone coming into the flat is reasonable, because it has happened in the past and will likely continue to happen for the amount of time that Sherlock lives here and publishes his address on his website. Hm. Maybe that spree killer will make an appearance. That would speed things up. 

  The noise comes once more.

  Down, by his feet.

  The castle, Sherlock had most forgotten. Has something broken inside the walls? He’s unsure of how that would happen, it’s made for children, and there’s no way that he is more destructive than a child. He hasn’t touched the thing since last night. Removing the cigarette from between his teeth and expelling a puff of smoke, he crouches beside the castle. He lifts the top of the castle off. He doesn’t see anything smashed or broken, just the empty rooms. He sets the cover back over the towers.

  Sherlock pokes at the gatehouse, and the chapel, and then lowers his head a little to peer into the abandoned stables. Nothing.

  The courtyard’s empty, anyways, so there’s nothing there that could break-- “Wait,” Sherlock rumbles to himself, pushing the cigarette back against his lips and taking a drag.

  Where’s the knight?

  Sherlock knows for a fact he put the small blond figurine in the middle of the cobblestone yard last night. And yet, it’s missing. Sherlock looks at the drawbridge. It’s half lowered, tiny chain draping from the sides to the cutout in the castle wall.

  So, that was what made the sound. Clearly. Sherlock should’ve figured it out earlier. Strange, he thinks as his eyes roam the rest of the castle, searching for the knight, that it has been in the flat for weeks, but never made a noise like that so far. He hasn’t had a problem with it. A draft may have shifted the bridge, but as he checked before, no windows in the flat are open. 

  But onto the more pressing matter. Who could’ve moved the knight out of place?  

  Frowning, Sherlock reaches down and into the back of the stables, where he cannot see due to the overhang. If this is Mycroft’s way of casually reminding Sherlock that he can interfere at any time, it’s a very annoying way of showing it, and Sherlock just wants the knight back where it belongs. If Mycroft has taken it and hidden it away somewhere, he will be getting an earful from Sherlock. In fact, he has a dental appointment tomorrow, so Sherlock will send him a barrage of texts as penance. Sherlock's fingers hit the back wall of the stables, and he’s just drawing them out, as--

  “Ow!” He exclaims, pulling back his hand, stung. Examining the tip of his pointer finger, Sherlock finds a drop of blood, red and welling up.

  He glares at the hooded stables. A loose splinter, broken shard of rock?

  Movement. Sherlock stares.

  And the little knight _steps out_ from underneath the stable roof.

  Sherlock shouts, jerking backwards, mouth opening and the cigarette landing in his lap. The figurine has assumed its pose, hand on hip, other down by his side. Only, the lowered hand is holding a gleaming dagger, absolutely tiny.

  Worse, the knight _glares_ up at him. Slowly, the tiny figurine raises the jagged dagger. Sherlock stares, mystified, at the subtle movement, the tiny clench of the knight's hand around his dagger. 

  In a far-away man’s voice, the knight shouts, “Away, fire-breather!”

  Sherlock blinks.

  Fire-breather?

  The cigarette burns his thigh. He brushes it quickly off, not caring if it lands on the dusty carpet or the hardwood floor. He stares.

   _Fire-_ breather?

  And a talking figurine?

   The knight takes a daring step forward in the courtyard, “Are you dense?” He demands, “Have you come to kill me? I’ll not be bested by you - not by any giant!”   

  Dumbstruck, Sherlock blinks.

  Sherlock scrambles up and retreats to the kitchen. He turns off the Bunsen burner and finds a roll of masking tape. When he returns to the sitting room, he peels off thick strips and pushes the drawbridge up, taping it in place. He will not have a tiny man running about the flat.

    This is an animatronic. Or a very small, drone-like robot. Controlled by Mycroft, obviously. Or… hm. Those seem to be the only rational options.

   The knight sees his impending imprisonment as he tries to push down the bridge again, hurrying across the yard and tries the handle that triggers the chains. He says something but Sherlock can't hear it. The knight runs back to the center of the courtyard - the castle walls are too high for him to see Sherlock otherwise.

  “You've trapped me. This is unfair, even for a giant,” The knight yells this as if giants are real and the knight is familiar with them. He brandishes the dagger again.

   Sherlock glances to the flat’s door. He hopes he isn't going mad. Perhaps he is. He says to the knight, not loudly, “I'm not a giant. You are very small.” He settles on his knees.  

   The knight considers this. Finally, he tucks his blade into his belt. “I have never met a giant that was clever,” He calls, “They are half-wits. Can hardly speak."

    There's a small thrill in Sherlock's chest. He shifts.

  “You must not be a giant. But then,” The knight looks high up at him, “How to account for your size?”

  “I'm afraid I'm only slightly above the average middle-aged man’s height.”

  “Middle-aged?” The figurine asks, a happy lilt in his voice, “Now, there is a lie if I have ever heard one. John, Sir John Watson. The Golden Knight.”

   This really does seem like the same figure the Langely girl gave to him. Could Mycroft have overheard that conversation long enough to catch the phrase _Golden Knight?_ No. Unrealistic. What is this tiny man? John Watson, the Golden Knight, fine, but certainly not _real_. Sherlock has been clean for months, now, there is no reason why he should be hallucinating. But, perhaps someone really did infiltrate the flat, and they have drugged him.

  And how quickly the tiny knight has gone from threats to flattery.

  “You're the one who’s out of proportion,” Sherlock says, interest caught. “You were made of lead not twelve hours ago. And now you’re threatening me as if you aren’t.”

  “I am made of flesh and blood. Tell me - what have you done with Rebecca?”

  Sherlock scrunches up the bridge of his nose at the mention of a woman’s name. “I haven’t done anything to anyone.”

  The knight, John, seems to parse this. His movements are so real, so fluid for such a small robot. It’s difficult to believe that John isn’t actually real, the way he touches his hand to his head as if in thought, the way that Sherlock can see his mouth move. That mouth had been a stripe of black paint last night.

  Sherlock continues, “I don’t know a Rebecca.”

  “Rebecca held this castle last.”

  That must be the Langely girl, who’d gifted the castle and the figurine to Sherlock. He glances over his shoulder, once more thankful that Lestrade seems to have forgotten what mobiles are again. Being alone, in this case, is good. Well, as alone as one can be with a tiny Mycroft-controlled-drone before him. Suddenly, Sherlock is very glad that he is not receiving any updates on his case. 

  “You know that you’re a figurine, then,” Sherlock says. There’s no reason that John would believe that he is as real as Sherlock, is he acknowledges the fact that his castle has had owners in the past.

  John Watson shakes his head. It’s hard to see from Sherlock’s vantage point, and he finds himself, stupidly, wishing he were better able to observe the small animatronics. “In _your_   world. I am as real as you. At first I mistook you for a giant, they’re common by here in my time, but now I see you must be another Rebecca. I didn't realize where I was a moment ago.”

  “I am not _a Rebecca._ ”

  John’s smirk, no longer painted but real, returns. “Then what are you?”

  “Sherlock Holmes.” _The_ Sherlock Holmes, he thinks to say too late.

  “Ah. What year is it for you? It jumps around, down here, for me. How long have I been in my case? I can never tell, anymore. Last I remember, it was 1938 by your standards.”

   Rebecca must’ve been the grandmother’s name, then. 1938. Sherlock squints, mind running numbers on the progression of artificial intelligence and the chances of anything like that being developed nearly a century ago. Improbable. “2010. If you knew someone a century ago, why were you surprised by my size?”

  “Because, usually, they’re smaller.”

  “They’re children.” Of course. Grown men don’t often play with figurines in fake castles, even if there are rampant collectors of antiques in London. Sherlock almost can’t believe that he had considered tossing the castle. Maybe Sherlock will call someone about the floor scratches. The _fire-breather_ comment makes more sense now, too, as children who the knight may have greeted in the past wouldn't have been smoking, even in 1938. As if any of this makes sense. 

  “I have been in my own world for quite some time, longer than usual. I was beginning to worry that someone had lost my figurine. I cannot come back without it.”

  Sherlock is taken aback by this statement, and now harbors doubt about whether this figurine is a robot at all. Surely, Mycroft would tell him if some sort of shrinking technology had successfully been invented. Or, maybe he was waiting for the day that Sherlock needed that knowledge from him, and held it over his head as the reward to a favor or a case. “Your own world?”

  John gestures around himself with his tiny arms, pointing at the castle walls, like it’s obvious. Sherlock supposes it is obvious. But John hadn’t been in the castle during this time in the interval, he’d been in the case that had come to rest in Sherlock’s pocket.

  Sherlock tells him so.

  John shakes his head, as if he has practice at this sort of introduction. “Holmes. My appearance is nothing to you, this is not what I am like. This body is temporary, my way to visit the holders of the castle. I live far away, in reality, of another time.”

  “You’re not real. You don’t - have blood,” Sherlock says, holding up his finger, where the small stab wound on its point has lazily congealed. He begins to calculate the chances that he has been drugged. It’s possible the stables in the castle had a sharp bit in them that had some substance on it. Although, that’s a very roundabout way to go and drug someone.

  John sets his hands on his hips. It’s difficult to tell what his expression is, without a more proportional way to look at him. He could get his magnifying glass from the banister, but then he’d look strange to John and for some inane reason this does not appeal.

  “Who needs blood to be real?” John asks.

  “You must know how ridiculous you sound.” Wasn’t the castle period in time also imbibed with terrible scientific methods? Of course it was. They bled people, were humorists, and Sherlock would’ve been burnt at the stake when he was nine for being a witch. “Who are you, really? And how much is my brother paying you for your voice?”

  “I have told you. Sir John Watson. The Golden Knight. What sort of proof would you like?”

  Sherlock retreats from the castle on the floor and snags his laptop off of the coffee table. He sits back down in the same spot over the carpet, brushing away his burnt-out cigarette and flaring out the dressing gown behind him, balancing the laptop on his knees. "Yes, I'm sure children more readily accept a toy come to life."

   " _Toy_." John scoffs. He seems interested. “What is that?”

  “My laptop. It’s a computer. A machine. They would’ve had simple enough machinery in 1938, don’t stop sticking to your character now, Mycroft.” Sherlock rolls his eyes, typing John’s supposed name in the search engine. Nothing relative shows up, not even when he searches for _Rebecca Langely_ in conjunction.

  “My name is Sir Watson. John, if that is so difficult for you to remember.”

  Sherlock snorts, “Nothing is difficult for me to remember. I’m a genius.”

  John crosses the yard again and pushes experimentally on the gate, which Sherlock had taped up. He tries harder, grunting. “There isn’t a need to imprison me, _genius,_ ” He exclaims.

  Sherlock points, still typing different combinations of _John Watson, figurine, knight, Rebecca Langely_ , and _castle_ into the search bar. “You’ve just tried to escape, so obviously there is a need to keep you contained. I don’t want a spy bug running around my flat.” Ugh. Nothing of use is coming up. He tries images, but they’re a flurry of medieval knight gear and old obituaries.

  “I am not a bug!” Sherlock glances over at John’s shout, narrowing his eyes as John draws the tiny dagger from his belt, and presses it against his own hand. He makes a face, and sheathes it again, and a moment later, John thrusts his hand up for inspection and the smallest line of red appears.

  Sherlock shuts his laptop.

  Must be the shrinking tech. Along with some delusional man off the street or an accomplished actor, though Sherlock certainly would’ve remembered John’s face, had he seen it before. With its painted expression last night, it had seemed as ordinary a figurine as any.

  Now, John twists his lip against the sting on his hand, as though pained, and he is real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a castle-in-the-attic-esque AU! short and sweet for the spring/summer as I work on the last chapter of In the Deep!  
> Featuring a case, magic, castles, a knight, and romance. the best combination.  
> leave a comment! :)


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Bloody hope you learnt something from that castle of yours.”

  “Impossible."

  John shakes his hand neatly, flicking blood to the ground. The dagger had dragged evenly against John’s palm. Sherlock had seen the line of red so clearly. And from his own finger, he knows the blade is wicked.

  Sherlock sits back, stumped, watching John wipe his cut on his cloak.

  A few notions of _antibiotic_ and _first aid_ crawl into his runaway brain. He pushes the laptop off his thighs with a _clunk_ and hurries into the kitchen, vaguely hearing John shout, “Where are you going!”

  No napkins or anything John can use to wrap his hand - Sherlock never buys kitchen supplies. Most things just… materialize. Or Mrs Hudson brings them up. A plaster certainly wouldn’t be the right size, not to mention the fact that John has never seen one before.

  Or, no, he definitely has, because he’s Mycroft’s spy and is only _acting_ like this, but still. Shouldn’t be bleeding all over the flat.

  He returns to the castle with a tissue, ripping off a piece and setting it down in the courtyard. He crumples up the rest and tosses it somewhere in the flat.

  John regards it warily.

  “It’s - for your hand.”

  “What of your hand?” John asks, as if he’s gravely wounded Sherlock instead of giving him a puncture no worse than a thumbtack.

  “It’s nothing.”

  John tears a strip and efficiently wraps his hand, threading it between his thumb and forefinger and tucking in the wayward edge. “I am sorry for it.”

  “It’s… alright,” Sherlock manages.

  John tests the durability of his new bandage by clenching his hand in front of him. Sherlock narrows his eyes, just able to see the tendons jump between John’s fingers.

  “Perhaps don’t slice yourself to ribbons next time someone doubts your physical existence.”

  “It won’t be necessary again. I only ever meet one person at a time. It’s you, now. I should seek no one else.” He drops his hand to his side, staring openly at Sherlock.

  Sherlock blinks. “One person?”

  “Only those who open my case.”

  Sherlock rolls his eyes. “What lore Mycroft is coming up with.” He stands and fiddles with his dressing gown sash, picking at a loose thread. He mumbles to himself, “You’d think he wrote children’s books.”

  A blue light flashes on the road outside the window, catching his eye.

  Sherlock pushes the curtains aside.

  On the street, Lestrade urgently climbs out of his police car and steps up onto the curb. He doesn’t pause for a second on the pavement before he disappears under the overhang of Speedy’s, approaching the door to 221. Sherlock hasn’t even seen him close and already, this must be about the case.

  Sherlock tunes in, the door downstairs groans open, and he whips around. His pulse thunders in his ears, white noise rushing around his brain. No, no!

  His gaze lands on the castle by his feet, next to his folded laptop, and the tiny, live knight staring up at him.

  Why couldn’t he have texted! This once!

  “Hide,” Sherlock says, quickly crouching. He pries off the roof of one of the castle towers as if it’ll help. “I still am unsure if you’re real or not, but for the chance that you are, for Mycroft’s sake, hide in the castle. I’m sure he’s not got all his ethics permits in order.”

  There’s no way Sherlock can lord this over Mycroft if his brother is tried for unethical experimentation. Not like he couldn’t get out of it, though.

  “I _am_ real.”

  “You’ve only revealed yourself to the person that opened your box in the past, if that’s true, you’ve hidden from everyone else, and my associate is coming upstairs, so _hide!_ ”

  The thumps on the stairs stop - brush of a coat by the stack of magazines beside the entrance, shoes hitting the landing. “Sherlock?”

  Sherlock rises and whirls to face the door, unable to come up with a valid excuse on the tip of his tongue. Belatedly, he drops the top of the tower to the carpet.

  Sherlock says, “Two.”

  Lestrade, bewildered, flicks his eyes between Sherlock and the castle. Sherlock darkens, willing Lestrade to make some kind of joke about an adult _playing with toys_. His expression must convey this, because Lestrade shakes his head, lingering meaningfully in the doorway.

  “Two. There’s been a second murder.” Sherlock pulls up the shoulder of his dressing gown, righting it where it has fallen, but doesn’t tie the sash. He wants to give off an air of nonchalance, like he wasn’t a second from disaster all morning. Which he _wasn’t_.

  “Were you smoking in--?”

  “Where?”

  “Residential. Outside of South London. Will you come?”

  “Is it him?” He strides casually to the side and positions his body between the castle on the floor and Lestrade at the entrance. The DI won’t be able to see over the castle walls from his place, but the addition of a safety net relaxes Sherlock considerably.

  “Will you come?”

  What to do about John? Sherlock’s lip twitches. “Not in the police car. I’ll be right behind you.”

  Lestrade nods. He points at Sherlock with his mobile (so he does still own it), already turning to go. “I’ll text you the address.”

  Sherlock glances away, humming in approval and feigning disinterest. When Lestrade’s heavy footfalls fade, he slips to the window. A beat as 221’s door closes, and below, Lestrade climbs into the cruiser. The anxious crawl of Sherlock’s skin wanes as the car disappears around the street corner.

  Satisfied, Sherlock snatches the tower top from the floor, brushes it off, and replaces it atop the castle. He twists until it fits into the corresponding grooves and is sturdy once again.

  But, mind a bit of tissue, the courtyard is vacant.

  Sherlock blinks. “John?” He drops to his knees, tilting his head to peer under the stables where John had first hidden this morning. He resists the urge to go poking around in them and repeat history with another bleeding finger. Even though John apologized, he probably doesn’t want to get prodded at.

  He looks from another angle and--

  Ah.

  John has climbed onto the side of one wall, beside the drawbridge chains. Already, he’s a few inches off the ground, but there is a long way to go. For a moment, Sherlock squints at him.

  “How did you know there had been a murder?” John grunts, hauling himself up by another tiny brick. The plaster crumbles underhand and he drops a few relative-feet back down, landing skillfully. He dusts himself off, unharmed. Not getting out that way.

  Sherlock had never forgotten for a second that John was here. Hopefully, Lestrade didn’t find Sherlock erratic. He needs Sherlock for this case too much to be put off by this behavior, of all things. Lestrade doesn’t deserve to concern himself over whether or not Sherlock is on drugs at any given time.

  Especially not when Sherlock is doubting his own sobriety.

   _Lestrade never visits for anything else,_ would be a lie, and not very impressive. “He ran up the stairs, took them two at a time. Were it for anything besides, he wouldn’t have hurried. There’s a body waiting. Paired with the fact I could see his holster under his coat, which he doesn’t carry on a regular basis, it was obvious.”

  Perhaps it wasn’t necessary that John hide, as Lestrade never stepped further into the sitting room than to hang at the door in desperation.

   Still, it’s good that John didn’t purposely try and make himself known. Sherlock can’t imagine how that conversation would go over. _Oh, you can see him too? Brilliant, then I was correct, he’s some sort of spy for my brother, the British government, don’t mind him_.

  Then again, why would John? There isn’t a crying need for an impromptu rescue mission. Not unless Sherlock can get him to break character and turn out Mycroft’s secrets for him, instead of vice versa.

  “Why are you being asked about murders?” John asks warily, reframing his original question and roaming the edges of the courtyard. He tips his head back to stare up the stone walls.

  Sherlock catalogues the shifting of window light through John’s silver hair as the knight pensively regards potential climbing routes.

  “I didn’t commit any, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Sherlock watches John’s prowl. Gears are whirring in John’s head (perhaps literally - no, no, he’s settled on his shrinking theory), and Sherlock tracks John’s steps, listening intently to the _scuff-scuff_ that his boots make on the painted plywood.

  “Didn’t say that.”

  “Implied it.”

  “You inferred it out of nothing.”

  Sherlock fidgets. “I am a consulting detective. I solve mysteries, including murder. When the _police_ are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me. I eliminate everything impossible, and whatever remains, must be the truth.”

  “You called me impossible not ten minutes ago.”

  “Well, ten minutes ago, you _were_ impossible.”

  John reaches out, running his fingers along the bumps of stones in the wall. He looks over his shoulder up at Sherlock, a bemused expression on his brow. “Have you ever… _solved_ a mystery?”

  Sherlock frowns. “Last month I solved a murder by approximating the killer’s large shoe size relative to his exceedingly slight weight. Where the Yard failed, they were expecting a heavy man, but I could tell by the piece of a shoelace left behind that the perpetrator was only eight stone.”

  John stops, returning to the centre of the courtyard. His hand does a funny clench by his belt, as if he’s thinking.

  “I’ve never known anyone able to do such a thing. You are outstanding.”

  John says this plainly, as if it does not shake the very foundations of Baker Street. It’s a miracle Mrs Hudson isn’t tossed out of bed or her kitchen by such a quake. (It’s a miracle she didn’t somehow prevent Lestrade from barging up.)

  His mobile pings in the kitchen with an incoming text. He ignores it.

  Exactly what events have transpired this morning? When he woke up, his only plans for the day were to boil blood and perhaps electrocute frog legs later in the evening. It would have been simple and planned and fine.

  Instead, it’s horrible. Unexpected, horrible, likely to be disastrous, especially when he needs to leave for this case…

  Needing to leave means that John is going to be in the flat alone. In the flat, as a spy, roaming about and looking over his things and maybe taking something. Or maybe Mycroft will sweep into Baker Street while Sherlock is out and collect this small knight of Sherlock’s and Sherlock won’t ever see him again.

  The notion of little cameras, or figurine-sized men, wandering the flat and finding all sorts of material that their employer can use against Sherlock to gain favors, sits unwell.

  Sherlock twists his mouth into a pout. There is nothing appealing in that line of thought. But it does make one thing clear: John cannot remain here unattended. Sherlock could set up his laptop camera and face it towards the courtyard of the castle and video while he’s gone, but he’d be able to do nothing if John manufactured a way to scale the walls.

  He glances to the drawbridge taped messily up to the side of the castle. Not really enough time to tape over the whole of the building. Plus, it might tear or peel something. Aluminum foil? Or put John back in his box? He’s got a dagger, John might be able to cut himself out of anywhere Sherlock tries to put him. Trapping him under a cup or a piece of cookware like an invading arachnid isn’t the most clever idea, either.

  The best solution reveals itself a split-second later. Naturally, John will have to accompany him to the crime scene. If John is with him, then, Mycroft wouldn’t be able to come over and collect his data bug, John won’t putter about the flat, and Sherlock will hear ‘outstanding’ again.

  Much better. Sherlock smiles.

  “Alright, _Sir John_. I’ll believe you’re real if you come to the crime scene with me.”

  “‘Crime scene’?”

  “Scene where a crime happened, keep up.”

  “Apologies, the children of your world that I interact with don’t often have much need to go to scenes where crimes happened.” John mocks him with a low bow in faux remorse.

  Was that sarcasm? Sherlock scoffs, “Children are boring.”

  “Then, you’re going to see the murder.”

  “Yes. And so are you.”

  “Of course,” John says, throwing his shoulders back. He’s quite strapping, his posture firm and commanding. Or, it would be. “You must keep _some_ protective company.”

  “You--” Sherlock sputters, taken aback and utterly thrown, “you are five-point-one centimeters tall.”

  “And already I can see issue with your livelihood, even from my vantage point.”

  No point in sitting at home when there’s something _fun_ going on.

  He needs to get dressed, collect his things, and rush out the door! He needs to hit the pavement and appear at the crime scene. Against his skin he needs to feel the London air and not a dusty flat.

  He needs to deal with the figurine-come-alive.

  Sherlock hesitates. He reaches a hand down into the courtyard, lying the back of it flat on the plywood.

  John sidesteps Sherlock’s thumb, cautious. “What are you doing?”

  “Come along. I won’t crush you. If you don’t poke through my things, then you can stand on the coffee table while I get my kit.”

  John pulls his dagger from his belt, but otherwise doesn’t protest, stepping up onto the palm of Sherlock’s hand. Slowly enough not to throw him, Sherlock sets the knight onto the low table before the sofa, sweeping away stray papers. No reason for John to read them, or step on them. Who knows what sorts of things he has tracked his boots through.

  John turns his head, then his body, looking around the flat. Sherlock stands, awkward and apprehensive but strangely concerned about what this tiny man thinks of his living space.

  What does he think of the taxidermy bat in the shadowbox on the wall, or Billy on the mantelpiece over the ashy hearth? What does he think of the chairs and the paintings and the wallpaper?

  “Nicer than the attics I’m accustomed to.” John sheathes his dagger.

  Sherlock’s shoulders drop. That wasn’t so hard.

  Although, it does seem silly to preen and wonder over John’s opinion, when John’s real name probably isn’t even _John_.

  “Stay there,” Sherlock says.

  “Right, ho,” Says John, not listening. His dark cloak flows elegantly around the backs of his ankles as he moves, stepping near the edge of the table and looking far down to the carpet. In daylight, out of the shadow of the castle towers and harsh window light, the minuscule rivulets of chainmail glimmer on John’s chest in a stripe between edges of his pinned red cloak.

  Just as the paint on John’s face had become a real set of features, so had the metal of the armor plating his thighs. His long boots, what are they meant to be made of?

  Does Sherlock’s coat look as regal as John’s cloak?

  Sherlock doesn’t bother with another warning and retreats to the kitchen. He glances at the vial of blood still poised over the Bunsen burner. There will be time for that later today, or tomorrow, or whenever he puzzles out the mystery of John Watson.

  A secret spot of his head, reserved for the most interesting of cases, hopes it takes ages.

  Sherlock peels off his dressing gown, balling it up and tossing it onto a kitchen chair, stopping to glance at himself in the mirror in the bathroom. His hair is just as much a disaster as it was when he woke up this morning, with frizz sticking to the side of his head. He hadn’t been expecting anyone besides a visit from Mrs Hudson.

  Not Lestrade, and certainly not John Watson.

  He opens his wardrobe, selecting a pair of black dress trousers and a dark blue shirt. He does up the buttons quickly, mind already spinning around the facts of the case and how to go about bringing John along without notice.

  Because obviously John cannot be seen by any of the Yard. Selling the idea of John being a tiny robot of Sherlock’s own invention is an option, but not when John so vocally and adamantly insists he is a live human being.

  Sherlock slips his shoes on over his socks. He brushes down his suit jacket, tweaking the edge of the lapel notch.

  It’s incredibly unlikely that the case should require some sort of chase or action besides viewing the new murder and comparing the old files. The killer had originally been profiled as a man in his forties, and now, nearly twenty years later, he must be in his early-to-mid-sixties.

  Although there have been several cases which Sherlock was required to go after elderly murderers, Sherlock doubts this will be one of them. Statistical likelihood. Still, it can’t be ruled out. Sherlock makes sure his shoes are tied appropriately, musses his hair artfully in the bathroom, then steps back into the sitting room.

  His fingers itch to smooth his usual product through his curls, make himself more presentable. Out of principal, he neglects to do it.

  As expected, John has remained on the coffee table, stalking the edges like a big cat in an empty pen. Given enough time, he could figure a way down and out of the flat, Sherlock is convinced, but why do that when Mycroft is surely going to pick up his spy sometime soon?

  Well, not anymore. Sherlock’s going to stop him from doing that.

  John’s learned nothing, and Sherlock will be hard-pressed to let him go, if only to hold it over Mycroft.

  The knight sees him approach, stopping his pace.

  Even though his eyes don’t give much away from up here, Sherlock catches the way John’s chin tilts up and then back down a half-second later, tracking down the whole of Sherlock’s form. John says, quite loudly, “Oh. That’s nice.”

  Something terribly embarrassing rises like a flush to colour Sherlock’s face. That doesn’t sound anything like words that would come from Mycroft, or from Mycroft’s people. They all know how difficult he is and, despite frequent interventions, never have orders to harass him.

  Or compliment him. John meant to be heard, but Sherlock says nothing in answer.

  Sherlock fiddles with a cuff link, and then sweeps to his armchair to collect his coat. It’s the right weight and there are no more cases and no more figurines as he slides it on, popping the collar up.

  This presents a peculiar problem. He already announced that John would be coming with him, John had agreed, but he’s not about to put John in any of his pockets. Sherlock runs through a list of ideas (pockets, some-kind-of-bag, different coat, other pocket, trousers-- no!), until the only viable one rears its ugly head.

  It is early spring, so a scarf won’t be amiss in his outfit. Spring for London means more rain and wet pavement and soaked alleyways. Even in summer, the scarf is a familiar accessory he likes to tote around with. It’s come in handy a few times, once memorably when he turned a strangler into a victim of said strangling. Sherlock plucks the routine scarf from its hook by the door and ties it around his neck, patting it down with special attention.

  He stoops by the coffee table, holding out his hand again.

  Just as before, John climbs on. Sherlock raises him up to his shoulder, keeping his fingers tightly together lest John get caught in the cracks.

  Sherlock clears his throat, waiting for John to disembark. John steps onto Sherlock’s scarf, slipping in the cloth for a moment, then hanging onto the collar of Sherlock’s coat.

  Sherlock approaches the mirror on the mantel. There’s John, as a little point of weight standing on Sherlock’s trapezius muscle. The red of his cloak blends purple in the dark blue of Sherlock’s scarf, and the line of John’s arm shines with metal as he manages a grip to stay upright. If he were to fall, the folds of the scarf should act like a hammock and catch him.  

  Experimentally, Sherlock half-turns, and the shadow of his coat collar throws against his throat, expertly concealing John. Not enough to fool someone looking, but who would look?

  Through the scarf, Sherlock can feel the warm press of a tiny hand against his skin. The simplicity of it dazzles him.

  “Are you able to stay put?”

  Without a need to be loud to account for the difference in their sizes anymore, John’s voice, real and comprehensible, sounds pleasing to Sherlock’s trained hearing. It’s masculine and rugged, and softer than Sherlock would have expected. “So long as you don’t keep swanning about.”

  Sherlock scrunches up his nose in offense, finding his own incredulous face reflected back at him. His mouth twitches with the obvious withheld comment, _I don’t swan._

  (But what did he fix his hair for? Twice?)

  “When we get to the scene, make certain you don’t say anything.”

  “I’ve met a dozen of your people over my years,” John says with patience, “I don’t go rushing, trying to meet more of them.”

  For some reason, this cools Sherlock’s spreading nerves. It’s surprisingly easy to fall into this trap - the idea that someone else may hate interaction with others as much as Sherlock does.

   Naturally, it’s all made up - but Sherlock has to force himself to remember that. John’s story comes so straightforward.

  Maybe there is some kernel of truth to the actor behind John’s character. _Don’t be fooled_.

  John lets Sherlock pick at the scarf and adjust the ends enough so that John is largely hidden, but aims a well-placed kick to Sherlock’s knuckle when Sherlock catches on his armor.

  “That is well enough,” he says.

  Sherlock scoffs, turning his head away for a last check in the mirror. “You’re kept in attics and cases, how would you know?”

  “You have somewhere to be?” John snaps.    

  Unwilling to let John know that he’s right, that Sherlock does have somewhere to be, Sherlock keeps a persistent quiet, knitting his mouth shut.

  Sherlock snags his mobile from the counter and checks the address Lestrade sent to him, scanning in his head the memorized crime rates for the area. He tucks it away and strides out the flat’s door, stopping to lock it as a sidenote to Mycroft’s lackeys.

  He descends the stairs with more care than usual.

  Is Mrs Hudson in? There’s a faint, pungent reek of herbal soothers downstairs. Mrs Turner must’ve been over last night for cards. He locks the front door, too, because Lestrade doesn’t have a key, and it won’t do to have Mrs Hudson exposed to the mad fray of London’s people.

 The air is brisk and the wind high. Sherlock’s mind is a whippet, darting along a looping track as he steps to the street. People filter by on the walk, going about their benign business like they don’t know any better.

  John’s silence is so stark that Sherlock can almost hear him wondering over the passersby, the thrall of smooth traffic, the height and modernity of the buildings scaling around them in the city.

  “I suppose you’ve forgotten what big people look like since you’ve begun fraternizing with my brother.”   

  “Once more, I know nothing of your brother. My figurine is a stand-in for me in your world - it’s to keep my place. I am real, and _sizeable_ , in mine.”

  Sherlock’s hand pauses mid-air, flagging a cab. Is that some sort of size joke? God, the smile is nearly audible in John’s voice. Sherlock resists an irritated groan.  

  “I do not know why I arrive here when I do, but I’m real. Sometimes, magic is without reason.” John stops. A beat. “I may be taller than you.”

  “Shut up.”

  “What an unmannered tongue,” John admonishes fondly. _Admonishes._ Sherlock is being lectured about politeness from a drone of Mycroft’s? A drone of Mycroft’s with blood and sass?

  The next cab pulls up to the curb, and Sherlock ducks in, holding his collar lightly to his throat as he sits, giving the address to the cabbie. They pull away from Baker Street, swerving into the lines of traffic in late-afternoon London streets. Sherlock checks his mobile, trying desperately to pretend this is a usual, normal taxi ride to a usual, normal crime scene.

  His collar flattens suddenly against his neck, and then something pulls on his hair. John’s hard metal boot hits his earlobe as the knight attempts to adjust to his new position on Sherlock’s shoulder.

  “Fine,” Sherlock snaps, “you're life-size in _your world?_ ”

  “Do you believe I could slay dragons if I weren’t?”

  “You don’t have dragons! You don’t have giants! Stop making things up.”

  The cabbie stares at him in the rear-view mirror. Sherlock sees him wondering why he chose to pick up Sherlock of all people in London. Biting back another comment, Sherlock debates rolling down the window to have the wind rush in and drown out any sound John makes.

   Although it’s late for a cover, Sherlock pulls his mobile from his coat pocket and holds it up to the ear opposite John.

  The smell of old leather polish and perfume dredges through Sherlock’s senses, conjuring images of former passengers.

  “You’re some drivel from Mycroft’s office, although there is a four-percent chance that you’re MI6, as you’re dreadfully committed and seemingly physically qualified for this intel mission that my brother has sicced on me…”

  “Children usually understand the concept of magic much quicker than you’re working on it.”

   This breaks Sherlock’s attempt to be subtle and quiet and reserved. He shushes through his teeth, growling into the mobile, “Because they’re children!”

  “ _Smart_ children, and I thought you were meant to be a genius?”

  Why is Mycroft trying so hard to make Sherlock think he’s on drugs? Is this some sort of game to him? Game of ‘see how stupid you are because you did cocaine’? ‘See what I can make you believe now that you were on coke that-one-time-for-two-years’?

  “What is that?” John asks. He leans out of Sherlock’s scarf, holding onto a fold of fabric for balance as though he’s a sailor rigging lines, coming into Sherlock’s periphery. Sherlock glances at him out of the corner of his eye. So close like this, he can see the expressions on John’s face with greater clarity - curiosity, bewilderment.

  “My mobile _phone_ ,” Sherlock answers automatically, then scowls. He shouldn’t play along and bother pretending to explain things to this spy of his brother’s.

  He pulls the mobile from his ear and fiddles with the case in his lap, glancing out the window and away from John. The cityscape rolls by, accompanied by ordinary people on the sidewalk or in the windows of shops, all doing ordinary things. Sherlock squints, and they all become murderers.

  “I won’t bother asking what it does,” John distracts him from his musings. “I know that you are too clever to be explaining it.” Little pads of pressure hit the dip of Sherlock’s clavicle. This position is nearly intimate. 

  Sherlock’s mouth flattens. John is sitting on his shoulder like a parrot, still utterly lost in his sham role of a magical knight, and here Sherlock is, half-fantasizing! Perhaps Sherlock really should have taped him under a jar in the flat while he was out. Screw the possibility of running out of oxygen. 

  Sherlock petulantly stares out the other window, as if John were riding only in the seat beside him. In his head, he composes petty texts to Mycroft.

  _'You'd do much better not having your spy introduce himself to me next time.'_

_'Next time, send something less alive so that I can destroy it without committing murder.'_

_'Next time, don't make him handsome, and I won't have to keep him.'_

 

 

   The cab rolls slowly, parking out on the edge of a gated neighborhood. Never visited this particular residential area before. The homes beyond the black fence are all multi-storied, large buildings, all painted white and light pastel, indistinguishable from the overcast sky and the clouds rushing through up above. 

  He lifts a lip, wondering over what arrogance he'll have to face from someone who lives here. 

   He shoves paper notes at the cabbie, who mutters something about nutjobs under his breath. The cloying smell of blooming tulips hits him first as he shuts the door and the cab pulls away, retreating the way they'd come. The ground here outside the gate, rolling with planted flowers and turned-over mulch, is a garden, and has been freshly tended to by practiced gardeners. The flowers are overpowering. He doesn't want to think about Mrs Hudson's floral perfumes anymore, and if he sees a bouquet in the next week he's going to gag. 

   The fence wraps around the neighborhood. If he wanted to, he could sneak in quite easily somewhere down the line and further from the main road, but that would require vaulting the high, sharp fence, and Sherlock doesn't feel like taking extra precautions to ensure John's safety right now. He instead walks pointedly to the guard's booth, glancing at the scanner beside it. When residents drive through, they touch an ID and the gate opens. All it would take is a quick pickpocket from a passing jogger. 

   Sherlock tries a different approach. 

   He schools his expression, turning his face to the side expectantly, and flashes Lestrade's badge at the security guard. "Inspector Lestrade. My team has gone ahead. 57 on Chemsworth Circle."

   "Ah, sorry, sir," she says, putting her magazine down. She gets off the stool and presses a button in the booth. "They started coming through a few hours ago. Chemsworth's to the left and down the street." The barrier groans open slowly, and Sherlock strolls through. "Do you know what's on?" She asks after him.

   "Murder," Sherlock says tacitly, smiling, and sweeps away. 

   Should nick Lestrade's things more often. At least more badges. He flips it in his hand and tucks it back into his pocket.  

   He walks briskly towards the desired road, following the security guard's directions. The wind buffets through the tidy streets, and so, without making a big stir of it, Sherlock buttons up his coat, allowing his collar to stiffen against the cold and keep John from it. "You'll remember to keep quiet," he says, focused ahead. Checking to see if John's alert. 

   The reply comes quickly, with John terse by his neck. "I have heard you before. The last dozen times."

   Sherlock purses his lips, indignant. 

   57 Chemsworth Circle is in row with the rest of the adjacent houses, large, mint green (what developer paints a house mint green?), old colonial. Flashing police cruisers are parked in the drive and on the road, yellow tape being strung on posts around the property corners by a tired intern, and officers mill about, with a photographer taking pictures of the ground-floor windowsills. Sherlock must have missed the curious crowds of neighborhood residents that have come and gone. Thank god.

   He's slightly disappointed that all the commotion hasn't diffused the floral scent of spring. 

   Lestrade waits by the front door, up on the open porch, speaking with Anderson in a heated tone, glancing over when Sherlock ducks under the tape and sifts through busy officers. 

   Anderson's lips thin into a line, his grip on his notepad tightening. The blue of a cruiser's flash bounces off his dark forensics jacket. "You can't be here. It's a crime scene."

   Sherlock pretends to look around. Eyes wide, he tips his head. "Is it?"

   "You--"

   "I invited him," Lestrade says to him. Sherlock stands silently by, waiting for Anderson to get over himself. "Look, we know it's him, so let's just get on with it. Sherlock?"

   "Mm." 

   Anderson affixes him with what is surely meant to be a withering stare, but with his cheek twitching so irritably, it comes off as revoltingly insecure. How bad it must feel to have an outside consultant do your job better. Sherlock smiles tightly, self-assured, and crosses into the foyer of the house with Lestrade. 

   Inside, it is well illuminated, both with natural cloudy sunlight filtering in through the bay windows in the foyer, and the house lights. Unfortunately, this reveals a terrible thing. The floor is completely covered in deep red shag carpeting. Sherlock peers into the hallway, then around another corner. Even the stairs are plastered with it. That is awful. He doesn't want to see the kitchen. 

   Sherlock stares blankly at his feet for a few moments. 

   Then he motions to it for Lestrade. 

   Lestrade blows out a breath. He doesn't understand it any more than Sherlock. First mint green, and now this? Without acknowledgement, Sherlock proceeds further into the house, keeping watch and a running list in his head of all the strange decor.

   His shoes are annoyingly quiet. Portraits of monarchs, reprints of famous Picasso pieces cover the marred wallpaper, unsettling taxidermy mammals on side tables. There's a lamp in the sitting room somehow fashioned out of a rabbit, next to a stack of cornered coasters, and it is hideous. A panel of collectible teaspoons hangs over one of the several stone fireplaces. 

   With high ceilings and arching doorways, it's a wonder the owner was able to make the architecture look so ugly just by filling it with reproachable decorations. The only forgivable additions are the family portraits, and even then they toe the line. A smiling pair of brides at a wedding, the same women in candid shots across a span of time. Family, yellowed photographs of long-gone dogs, shots of lilac bushes in the summer and ponds in autumn orange. 

   Although mismatched terribly, by colour, sheen, style, everything is perfectly positioned. Everything has a place, every frame a poised angle, and nothing is rusty nor dirty. There are no plates or cups out in the (thankfully carpet-free) kitchen, the sink is empty, and the icebox is unfathomably clean. Pillows on the sofas are arranged perfectly. He disrupts a couple photographers, waltzing through the dining room and touching all four legs of the walnut table and generally getting in the way. 

   Sherlock takes a long breath through his nose. Antiseptic. Lemon antiseptic. And it is everywhere - worse than the flowers outside. His fingers itch to open up all the windows in the house. How could anyone have lived with such a horrendous overflow of smells and sights? His flat smells like chemicals and stale tea and dust motes and sheet music, none of this artificial nonsense. 

   Lestrade, having shadowed Sherlock's prowl dutifully, clears his throat when they return to the kitchen lino. "You want to take a look at the actual scene, now?"

   "A scene is nothing without its victim."

   "S'pose."

   Sherlock sticks the top back on a jar full of plastic straw wrappers, replacing it on an immaculate marble countertop. 

   “Bloody hope you learnt something from that castle of yours.”

  Sherlock mood shifts, and he forces the next item under scrutiny, a knitted basket, onto the counter, turning in offense. He flickers over the DI’s form in four seconds, all it takes for him to come up with the proper ammo to disarm Lestrade should he make another castle comment. It's not only the idea of being taunted, but profound discomfort that has wormed its way into Sherlock, skimming his scalp alight and curling his fingers involuntarily.  _Wife, gym teacher..._ What’s next? “Are you going to ask me how _playtime_ went?” Sherlock says through gritted teeth, a low tone that typically coaxes an instigation from lesser people.

  Lestrade clears his throat again and adjusts his jacket. He waves Sherlock on. “Couldn’t get a print on the - er, body.”

  Pleasantly surprised by the lack of any teasing, Sherlock follows Lestrade's lead down the next hallway. Mycroft has been toying with his head all morning. It wasn’t entirely fair to snap at Lestrade - he isn’t the person Sherlock is annoyed with.

  Sherlock’s apology is a return to his usual voice and apathetic demeanor. “Even if you had it wouldn’t show up in the system. You said it was likely the same person responsible for the killings 18 years ago. If he’d been printed since, there would have been a match from the old murders.”

  “Wouldn’t have brought you in if this one weren’t related.”

  They climb the long staircase. Lestrade takes them two at a time. Every step is well-taken care of, no loose nails, no creaking wood, no wobbly posts. Just monstrous carpet. 

  “What makes you _think_ they’re related?” Because it all is theory until Sherlock proclaims it otherwise.

  Lestrade puffs out his chest. “Hunch.”

  Sherlock glares. “Nothing for 18 years and suddenly two in a week. He’s rushed - but not on a spree, there’s too much space between victims, too much planning. He knows you’ve connected the murder last week to the old ones. He’s rushed, and so he’ll make a mistake.”

  Perhaps they were wrong, perhaps this was never a spree, and has always been a serial killer. Are there more murders to be attributed to this man, forgotten cases in washed-up evidence lockers?

  “Well, he has.”

  Sherlock stops on the landing.

  He grips the railing hard, fingers biting into polished wood.

  “What?” And Lestrade didn’t _lead_ with that? Showed up at Baker Street as if this were a _normal_ second murder? Let Sherlock dawdle and get dressed and do his hair and take John? “What mistake?”

  “Last time there weren’t any murder weapons. Cause of death as exsanguination and type and area of the wounds is what connected all the old ones and last week’s together. You were right to notice that connection. This time, there’s definitely a weapon. Not sure if he was interrupted or rushed, like you said, but he left it.”

   _Left it._

  “Definitely,” Sherlock says. He steps up to Lestrade, waiting for him to open the door into the actual murder scene. Most of the time Lestrade requires direction from Sherlock to keep his own two feet under him. Now, he’s here assuming he knows what the murder weapon is? “You said _definitely._  Why definitely?”

  “Just come up, you’ll see what I mean.”

  It is not often that Sherlock applauds Lestrade for his word choices. It is never, actually. But. _Definitely_ is correct.

  The dead woman lies supine on the floor of the second-level sitting room. The red shag carpet is flattened haphazardly around her, and might have indicated the expert dance of a struggle if there weren’t the footprints of all officers who have trampled through this room mixed in. Evidence that could have been discovered in the filaments of rug are long gone by now.

  The room is dim at the corners but brightly illuminated by portable police LEDs around the woman’s body, throwing sharp shadows in the pleats of her skirt and the ruffles of her bloodstained blouse.

  The victim’s head is tilted back, neck exposed and head resting on the carpet, hair a messy pin-up of brown and wiry grey. Her arms spread wide to either side of her body where she lies, and her eyes and mouth are closed. She looks almost peaceful.

  The delicate fact about this body is the ancient longsword piercing through her ribs.

  Long, grey metal, with a hilt of tawny bronze. The lights hardly reflect off it at all, and strange markings are etched into the length of the blade, half-hidden by the body they have felled. It glints, revealing no imperfections. 

  It sinks well into the floorboards underneath Shadwell. She is speared into her own home. Blood is soaked into the shag she rests on, black and dried, and a rose of it blooms through her blouse. This was the single killing blow. One slash, a thrust, and death.  

  “Michaela Shadwell, she was fifty-four.” Lestrade hands a paper file to Donovan, who loiters in latex gloves by one of the bright lights and glares at Sherlock when he walks in. “Found by her neighbor a few hours ago. We know she’s been dead for a day, going by when she’d last been seen and rigor mortis.”

  “Factor in the low temperature?” Sherlock removes his magnifying glass from his pocket kit and clicks it open, bending low to look at the woman’s false eyelashes. They are glued out of place, and nothing in this home is out of place. Not the stuffed animals, not the spoons above the mantel, nothing. She would never leave her bathroom with uneven lashes. OCD. There was a struggle, brief, and it finished with Shadwell dead and skewered on a sword.

  “‘Course.”

  “She lived alone.” Sherlock investigates her fingertips, the single broken nail with meticulous blue polish. Something near his ear rustles, the scarf pushes into his hair, dislodging tired curls.

   He’d almost forgotten the tiny man that's hidden in the folds of his scarf, just below his collar. Sherlock straightens immediately. It wouldn’t do to have John fall out. Both because they are surrounded by officers, Donovan and Lestrade, and Sherlock can only assume that a fall from this height would injure John. And, John would probably not like to land on a dead body. He pats down his pockets, pretending to assess the body from above.

  “Yeah. Her wife passed a few years ago, surgery complications.”

  Obvious from the rest of the house. Old photographs and the memorabilia of two people, yet the signs of being lived in from only one. Sherlock’s gaze flashes to the black side table beside her sofa across the room, where one teacup sits in a lonely painted saucer. Handle faces left, one of the many signs that betrays Shadwell’s left-handedness.

  She was drinking tea when the murderer came in. Otherwise, the cup would not have been left out.

  So, she remained in this room until the killer crept up the stairs and opened the door. She didn’t hear him come through the front. Could have been another point of entry. What of the windows? On the second story, they’re too high to be scaled by anyone without a ladder, and the noise of a screen creaking open would’ve alerted the victim enough for her to make an escape. His brain makes note of the writing desk in a lonely corner beside a floor lamp, the coffee table that has been pushed aside by the police, and the ceramic white elephant statue on a shelf. Beside it is a large, framed picture of two happy women in wedding dresses. 

  He runs through a list of deductions. She wasn’t hard of hearing or deaf, and didn’t wear glasses. It’s reasonable to assume she did not hear or see anything out of the ordinary.  

  Sherlock stares at the patterned cushions of the sagging sofa as if it will blurt out all of its secrets for him. It won’t, naturally, so he focuses instead on the weapon embedded in Shadwell’s chest, just below her sternum.

  She was alive, when he twisted it between her ribs. It would have hurt.

  He circles the body, gleaning information.

  The sword’s make is consistent with the slashes that made up the previous murders in this string. Leaving it here is… something. A message? A forfeit? Is the murderer giving up by giving away his weapon? Conceding, or out there committing ritualistic suicide for a job he perceives as ‘well done’?

  Lestrade keeps out of his path. “We’ve been looking at the sword, it seems able to deliver the kind of fatal injuries we’ve seen with the other murders.”

  “Yes, this was the murder weapon,” Sherlock asserts. His eyes flit down the blade, calculating what angles it must’ve been thrusted at to achieve the wounds it inflicted in the other bodies. He mentally pictures the previous victims, fitting the sword before him into their bodies, the ragged, deep lacerations they all suffered to the chest. A perfect fit. His technique never changed. “If you test the dried blood by the hilt you’re sure to come away with more than just Shadwell’s. But now he’s left it.”

  “Could mean the end of his murder streak?”

  “He wasn’t interrupted when he killed her. She was found a day later. This means something.”

  Donovan's posture goes rigid, hostile irritation pouring off her. “‘Something?’ So, you don’t know. Great. Greg, you sent Phillip out for nothing. Freak doesn’t know.”

  Lestrade waves her off. “It’s old, too.”

  “What makes you say so?” Sherlock asks.

  “That’s the whole reason we brought you in,” Donovan continues. “Why he left the sword, and you can’t figure anything about it!”

  Lestrade steps up beside Sherlock, pointedly ignoring Donovan and staring down at the body.

  At once, Sherlock is aware of the knight concealed in the folds of his scarf, and cedes room to the DI. He angles away, even when Lestrade glances at him, perplexed. In the past, Sherlock has never cared about trivial concepts such as personal space. To better hide John, Sherlock fusses with his collar and tucks his chin. A small arm elbows against his finger when he brushes up by cold armour, a warning to not get too close.

  Lestrade seems to forget this transgression at once. He points at the weapon, indicating the darker imprints of the etching.

  “Well, the - the words, here, down the blade. They’re not really words, and Donovan thought it was cuneiform at first--”

  “No.”

  “Yeah, no. Plus, we had an expert come check it out. While she didn’t know what they meant, she figured it was something from the early Renaissance period? She went on about the geometry of the blade. Said it was a ‘fighting piece’, not decorative, from Western Europe. There wasn’t a lot she could tell, sword still being stuck in someone and all that, but she figured it was genuine, and no restoration work had been done.”

  Ah, Lestrade kept the body in this state so that Sherlock could come and view it. How thoughtful. And very telling about how out of his depth Lestrade is. The whole of the police, actually, even if Donovan’s snark and Anderson's attitude tries to convince him otherwise.

  “An antique,” Sherlock notes. It shines in the bright light as if only just forged.

  His scarf brushes softly against his jaw.

  John sounds low near Sherlock’s ear, quietly surprising him. “Bit peculiar for a fighting sword.”

  The room slows. The cracked ceiling and the curls of floral wallpaper fall away in Sherlock’s mind, giving space to a new, brilliant idea. The lights all fade and the house shivers, turning bright, and the officers disappear. The shag dissolves. 

   _Oh_. Oh.

  It is like the sun has come up.

  If John is what he says he is, then he will become essential.

  Sherlock swivels and snaps.

  “Get out!”

  Lestrade fumbles for this quick turn in Sherlock’s mood. “What?”

  “All of you - all of you, get out,” Sherlock repeats. Expert be damned, John will understand this sword. No clue where this sudden conviction in John’s talent has come from, Sherlock points at the door with his magnifying lens.

  “Anderson’s already left! He was out before you got here!”

  “Wonderful, join him. Give me five minutes alone so that I may think in peace. You’re clogging up the room and ruining the carpet and you’re _disturbing_ the _dust._ ”

  Donovan sends Lestrade a look of incredulous disbelief.

  Sherlock straightens, rolling his shoulders back gently enough so that John won’t be dislodged but enough to make a fierce figure to the detectives. “Get out.”

  Lestrade exchanges another glance with Donovan. He sighs. “Fine.”

  “ _Fine?_ ” Donovan exclaims. “You’re just going to let the Freak be alone with a crime scene? Without any supervision?”

  “Yeah, just let him do his thing, it’ll only be five minutes,” Lestrade says. When Donovan doesn’t move, he continues, “You don’t want to be here any longer than I do, do you? Sherlock, be professional. I don’t want to see your fingers in a dead person’s mouth _again_.”

  “Good-bye,” Sherlock says, already hyper-fixated on the body and the promise of new, unorthodox information.

  Donovan’s words carry through the door as the team descends back downstairs to the foyer. She’s mocking him  - “ _Dust, dust! It’s always the dust with him!_ ”

  The dust isn’t actually very relevant to the crime scene this time. Shadwell had taken very good care of her home, cleaned frequently to the point of obsession. Sherlock threw that into his rant because he adores how touchy Donovan gets about dust each time he mentions it.

  When Sherlock calculates the Yard has had enough time to get out of earshot, he reaches a flat palm up to his shoulder. “Come along, John,” he says, his scarf shifts against his cheek, and the knight steps out onto the boat of his fingers.

  Sherlock holds out John before him, addressing him at eye-level. John brushes off his cloak, a habit that Sherlock reads off of him. Sherlock says, “We have five minutes before everyone else comes back in. You have five minutes to prove you are what you say you are.”

  Even if Sherlock’s theory of Mycroft and shrinking being involved is correct, there is a chance John is so committed to this character of a knight from a fantasy world that he will have acquired some intel about period-specific weaponry.

  Sherlock crouches beside the body, balancing on bent knees and outstretching his hand to allow John to peer at the wound. “What did you say about the sword?”

  “The sword,” John says. He pauses. His black boots tickle Sherlock’s skin as he turns around to face Sherlock. Metal armor clinks against John’s strong thighs. “Is that why you sent everyone away? Because I said something about the damned _sword?_ ”

  “Well, you would know.” Sherlock stares down at the figurine, trying to be imposing. “What’s peculiar about it?”

  Despite being two inches tall, John doesn’t seem phased by this glare. “You don’t know anything about swords?”

  Sherlock scowls. “I did not say that.”

  John turns back around to look at the body on the floor. “You might as well have,” he says, which is absolutely infuriating. Mostly because, yes, John’s right, Sherlock doesn’t know all the details about this weapon, which is unfortunate because if he did, he wouldn’t need the advice of a tiny knight.

  Sherlock levels his hand flat so John can see properly. “Do you know anything or not?”

  “Hold off,” John says, sounding irked at being prompted. But they only have five minutes alone.

  It is normal for Sherlock to be seen muttering aloud to himself at a crime scene, but significantly less normal for Sherlock to be seen talking to a toy-come-alive.

   He doesn’t intend to risk his scene privileges being revoked due to perceived insanity (although certain officers, read: Donovan and Anderson and that photographer Sherlock insulted last week, would be pleased) because he depends on the knowledge of a self-proclaimed magical knight.

  John walks to the edge of Sherlock’s fingers, and points at the handle of the broadsword. Sherlock dutifully lifts him.

  Sherlock intensely watches John study the sword. John touches his face in thought. The LEDs throw sharp contrast over his features, casting a shadow under his jawline and his nose. As he stands still, Sherlock can just make out the gold tint of his eyelashes against his cheek.

  “This would be far easier if I were your size,” John finally says, “or even _my_ normal size. I can’t focus on the whole thing at once.”

  “John,” Sherlock tries.

  John motions to the sword with his injured hand in a big movement for Sherlock’s benefit. “There’s something… Cruciform hilt--”

  “Cross-shaped, yes - obvious, John! Give me something new!”

  John looks at Sherlock over his shoulder, widening his stance and standing defiantly on Sherlock’s hand. He settles his hands on his hips, brushing aside his cloak - waiting. The seconds of alone-time tick by in an unstoppable counter in Sherlock’s head. Sherlock nods a slight apology.

  John goes on, “As I was saying…” John gestures to the sword. “It’s almost new, you can see the etching up high on the blade, which isn’t something you do to _any_ sword. Not on fighting swords, and that’s what was peculiar.”

  “Four minutes, John.”

  “By large, etching is the signature of the blacksmith, the forger, or something to instill the blade with power. Power, in a non-magical sense,” John adds, thankfully not arguing that his own being here should certainly be enough for Sherlock to question the existence of magic. That would waste more time. “Rebecca said you all were very into religion.”

  Sherlock studies the marks on the blade. They are in no language that Sherlock can read. They may just be abstract symbols, faux runes, meaningless. Imprinted while the metal was hot, done by the blacksmith. A true professional, by the look of it.

  John’s right, the sword does appear fairly new, without the chips and scratches and general wear-and-tear of a centuries-old weapon.

  How can something so clearly old look so _new_? It must’ve been well taken care of, still sharp enough to pierce flesh and crack open a woman’s ribcage. The ‘expert’ Lestrade brought in said that it was a genuine antique, without any signs of restoration work. But here it looks so sharp and bold, and nothing can withstand the test of time so completely.

  “Maybe in 1938,” Sherlock quips, again disliking John’s mention of this woman. Rebecca has been dead since 1996, he’d glimpsed her obituary online, yet Sherlock’s skin crawls with something like jealousy. “And it doesn’t appear to be religious, at the very least not Christian or Judaic. Carbon-dating can be sure of the date down to the decade, but that takes ages.” Ages, as in days, as in too long.

  “Can you move closer?” John says, suddenly urgent.

  Struck by his tone, Sherlock obliges. He holds his hand out by the hilt of the sword, and slowly lowers it.

  John’s voice has changed. It’s deeper, shocked. “I recognize the symbols. Can’t get a good look from here, I can’t see it all at once.”

  John knows what the etching means? Is it related to the murderer, some pedestrian, plebeian poetry about pain and killing from the medieval period that the killer has taken to heart? Was it a stressor at all that made him begin his killings 18 years ago, or was it the acquisition of the sword itself that triggered him?

  How can he read it, when even Sherlock can’t?

  Surprised, Sherlock tracks his hand slowly down the broad of the longsword, allowing John time to read the symbols as they pass.

  When they reach the end, where the bloody blade is stabbed through the woman’s chest, John shakes his head.

  “It can’t be.”

  “John?”

  “No, no. You are right. The etching isn’t religious at all - it’s magic.”

  “John,” Sherlock scoffs. “please--”

  “No,” John commands. “No, it is. This is _my_ sword.”  

  In his memory, Sherlock recalls sitting on the floor, toggling with John’s lead-carved belt. _‘There. Where’s your helmet gone, hm? And your sword?_ ’

  Is there any way Mycroft saw this, knows about this? Could have included this in the spy’s dossier of how to act?

  This is… highly improbable.

  One glance to John’s face, the smallest expression that he can see, convinces him. John is entirely sure in this conviction. Sherlock’s eyes widen, and the case takes a new turn.

  John is real, blood and all, and he is what he says he is.

  “Why didn’t you say that before!” Sherlock exclaims. He snaps his mouth shut, teeth clicking. Someone might hear him shouting, and though it’s unlikely anyone will come running, he’d like to avoid the potential discovery.

  “I-I hadn’t seen it in years, since my figurine had last become real, I’ve had many swords. But this is the sword from my figurine. The one meant to be on my belt!”

  “You were missing it yesterday when I opened your box. It wasn’t inside.”

  “I don’t understand.” John shakes his head. He struggles to find words. “It shouldn’t be _here_ , it - it shouldn’t be - be _big!_ ” John shoves his cloak aside and touches the scabbard by his hip. “This is the size it’s meant to be. In relation to _me_ , not you lot!”

  “Why would someone take a toy sword?”

  John runs an anxious hand through his silver hair. Unsettled, he walks a brisk circle on Sherlock’s palm. Clearly, there is some internal debate waging war through his head.

  “You’re certain.”

  “Yes!”

  “You’ve said this is the sword from your figurine,” Sherlock notes. Something about John’s worried demeanor unnerves his core. “It isn’t with you when you’re - real?”

  “I _am_ real,” John insists, “but it’s not with me in my world, no. Neither are these clothes, or this armor, or the castle. I’ve only had the sword when I am here, but it’s from my world, like the rest of it.”

  The solution lights up in front of Sherlock’s eyes like neon.

  “The killer is an _antiques collector_ . Of course he would want your sword, your sword is _literally_ straight from your time period. Be it a different, hm, world, plane, universe, so be it, irrelevant.” Sherlock twirls his free wrist, energy building like a tidal wave in his chest. Whatever world it is, it clearly is stuck in Sherlock’s high medieval period, _avec_ mysterious creatures, possibly. “ _Pristine_ condition because it’s been in your keep alongside your figurine! It hasn’t been to battle with you, so it appears new.”

  “How did you know?”

  “What battles would there be for you to wage while so small and _here?_ No strange creatures to stab, just children to nick.” Flashes his fingertip for emphasis.

  John shakes his head. “Brilliant.”

  Sherlock’s cheeks smudge with color. He blinks rapidly, losing his train of thought in a sudden, imposingly-thick white fog. His words stumble out from under him and the room has tilted off-kilter.

  It isn’t the blood, or the knowledge of the sword, but _this_ that convinces the last hesitant bits of Sherlock of John’s authenticity. Mycroft would not stage a murder of a citizen to make a point, and Mycroft would never call him brilliant. Or outstanding. Or 'nice'. 

  The mystery envelopes him. It carries him away like a high wind over moorland. Magic and miniature knights and enigmatic, ancient swords have flooded his haywire brain. How to solve a case that makes no logical sense.

  To think, he almost hadn’t brought John along.

  “But - but when did it go missing? When did you wake up here, in my world, without your sword?”

  “With you,” John answers, breathless. “When I retired last to my case, I had the sword. I remember.”

  “So who took it? And who did it transfer through to end up _here_? There are thousands of antique-selling websites, flea markets, we need to track down where it came from.”

  “I don’t wake each time my box is opened. I don’t know who opened it and why they took my sword. I don’t know the rules of magic.” John sighs. After a moment of deliberation, he asks the unfeasible question that Sherlock hasn’t had time to wonder over. “And why is it _big?_ ”

  “It was taken from your figurine by someone. And it was - changed. Then, an indeterminate amount of time later, between 1938 and now, it was sold, possibly through several people, but it ended up in the hands of my murderer. A sword like that’s going to be expensive. Museum-quality.”

  Sherlock drops to the floor in a whisk of movement, setting John onto the abdomen of the dead woman.

  John makes a noise of displeasure and lifts his boot, giving the clotted bloodstains on Shadwell’s chest a wide berth. "Disturbing." He looks visibly concerned that Sherlock set him on a body with no regard, but Sherlock can’t spend too long consoling John.

  Their time is running out. Sherlock clicks open his magnifying lens, knees pressing hard into the shag carpet. He closes one eye and squints through the glass with the other, skimming around her waist. Nothing strikes him immediately, nothing stuck on the decorative bows on her heels, cinch of her skirt…

  A tuft of light hair, caught in the teeth of the zipper on her side.

  Exactly.

  “What are you doing?”

  Sherlock doesn’t bother with his gloves. He leans over her skirt, the scent of cloying blood thick in the back of his nose, at last overpowering the residual lemon cleaning products from the rest of the house. Can’t imagine how that must smell to John. He plucks the hairs out of the zipper teeth, taking care not to break them, and rolls it over in his fingers, feeling the coarse texture.

  He holds it up to his lens.

  Long, wiry, grey, pointed neatly at both ends. Animal hair, shed, not pulled.

  With careful regard, Sherlock sticks his tongue out from between his lips and touches the hair to the tip of it.

  “ _What_ are you doing?” John asks again.

   _Feline dander._ “Cat hair. The cat might’ve been here when she was murdered.” Perhaps it was stolen? Or maybe the neighbor took it in after Shadwell was found dead and the police began to crawl all over her house. Having been doing reading about animal witnesses two months ago, Sherlock’s half-confident that the cat is a clue. If this pans out favorably, he could post a blog about it.

  Hm. He’d have to edit around the parts where John is a magic knight from another reality. Maybe Sherlock can write him as some competent detective’s companion.

  “We need to find something on the identity of the killer. Anything that will give him away. Find out why he has your sword, why it’s changed, _how_ it’s changed.” Sherlock waves the fur at John, who jerks back, stumbling over a ruffle of Shadwell’s blouse.

  John starts, “About that--”

  A knock at the door.

  They both freeze.

  Sherlock swiftly clicks his magnifier lens away and sets his hand beside John wordlessly. John dutifully manages onto it, already practiced at slipping from sight. Sherlock rises to his feet and holds John up to the crook of his neck, feels John’s boot and his weight dip the scarf.

  He pops his collar. “Yes. Lestrade.”

  “You done?” Says Lestrade, opening the door and hooking a hand around the frame. Donovan follows in his footsteps. She looks more irritable than she had five minutes prior.

  “Yes.”

  Lestrade steps into the room, infinitely tolerant of Sherlock’s antics. “Got anything?”

  He hadn’t been paying attention to his internal timer. If only he’d asked for six minutes, or ten, instead… But Lestrade returning doesn’t mean he has to halt his investigation, just that John can’t be present anymore. Why is Sherlock frustrated over that fact?

  “The cat,” John prompts quietly in his ear.

  “Yes!” Sherlock exclaims. He fixates on Lestrade. “Yes, Lestrade, where’s the cat? Animal witnesses and all that, where’s the cat?”

  “The cat?”

  “Yes, the cat, grey, maybe grey and white but mostly grey. Long-haired, there’s a cat.”

  Lestrade shoots a look to Donovan. He does something complex with his face and Donovan returns it with a jerk of her head towards Sherlock. Sherlock frowns. What are they saying? It’s difficult to tell when these officers all know each other better than any of them know Sherlock. It’s like a language Sherlock cannot figure out how to interpret, and that makes it infuriating.

  Lestrade broadens and crosses his arms over his chest. “There isn’t a cat.”

  Sherlock whirrs. For Lestrade’s benefit, he speaks very slowly. “Yes, there’s a cat. There’s cat _hair_ on her skirt. There’s a cat.” He flourishes a wrist towards the dead woman’s body, then the pinch of cat hair in his fingers at Donovan.

  “She didn’t own a cat.”

  Ah.

  There it is. The cat really is a clue, just not in the way Sherlock predicted. How stupid Sherlock was.

  Sherlock opens his mouth, sucking in a deep breath, and the deductions roll off his tongue, connections crackling with electric sparks as he speaks.

  “The murderer is a man with a grey cat. He’s an antiques collector, possibly antiques _dealer_ , either way he has a sizeable collection of fifteenth-century wear, or cutting weapons across the ages. Collectors usually have a time period they prefer and his is obvious. Could be a public collection, could be private. Enough wealth to collect pieces as he sees them. He doesn’t seek them out, the pieces come to him. So, dealers know enough of him to approach _him_ when they have an item they believe he would purchase.”

  “How the hell do you know that?” Donovan sneers.

  Because there is no possible way that the murderer went out seeking John’s sword. Because it did not exist in a large form before it was stolen from the figurine, John’s sword came to _him_. There was no lore about it, no fabled magic weapon. It didn't exist until it _did_. 

  No feasible way Sherlock can explain this without sounding mad. And finally - there’s an exciting, outrageous turn in the case! He can’t afford to be booted off of it now. If he was, he’d continue his investigation outside of the Yard’s jurisdiction, but that comes with its own set of problems, namely getting lectured from Lestrade.

  “She doesn’t own a cat, look around you - no litterbox, no toys, no _cat_ \- you’ve just said it, Lestrade, no cat! Small scuffle before the killing blow evident on her fingernails, the carpet, before you came in, and on the _cat hair_ of her _skirt!_ He had fur on his clothes, and as he fought her--” Sherlock jumps, sliding his hands together as if gripping the hilt of an invisible sword.

  He pretends to slash through the air, stepping where the victim might have as she fell, deliberately bumping into Donovan. Little hands hold tight to his scarf as Sherlock flourishes but John can keep steady. “-- as he fought her, the cat hair on him brushed up onto her skirt. Got caught in the zipper.”

  Lestrade’s brows raise, creating wrinkles in his forehead. His mess of spiked grey hair raises in dawning realization.

  Energy fizzles in Sherlock’s blood, buzzing beneath his skin. It’s coming together. “Yes, definitely, a mistake has been made, and it isn’t _just_ the sword.”

  Sherlock stalks across the room, eyes burning against the bright lights, and wedges his fingers beneath the window screen, tugging. Lestrade and Donovan’s heads swivel to watch him. He wrestles with the pane. Locked. Figured. He pivots back, new realizations jumping to the forefront. There was no sneaking involved in the killer's entrance. 

  “Shadwell was drinking tea when he came in - look at the house, she had severe OCD and would never have left that out half-finished - while he was inside her house. It wasn’t because she didn’t hear him come in, she was relaxed enough to enjoy a cup of tea because she _expected_ him. Look at her things!” Sherlock opens his arms, gesturing to the room.

  The paintings, the classical teacup, the ancient dressers, the old rack of walking canes, everything perfectly aligned against one another. Shadwell was as much of a collector as her killer, albeit chaotic items.

  “You’re looking for a man in his sixties with a grey, long-haired cat, who knew Shadwell prior to murdering her. He came here with the sword and she wasn’t alarmed because, at first, she thought she’d be purchasing it. She allowed him to walk right in her house, so they've met before. Otherwise, think about it, you would greet someone at the door. After last week, it’s clear that he arrived with the intention of murdering her. Wasn’t a deal gone bad, it was a plan gone _right._ ”

  “Not so right for her,” John says softly.

  Sherlock grins. A grin isn’t the appropriate thing to do at this moment, if Donovan’s expression of horror is anything to go by, but it’s all coming so swimmingly _together_.

  Lestrade touches his chin with a thumb. He nods to himself, and speaks to Donovan. “We should touch up with the museums, and the smaller ones in Holborn. See if anyone’s reported a missing exhibit. Come on,” he says, and sweeps out of the room.

  Donovan's mouth pops open, but she follows, still struck. “How does he know it’s _cat_ hair?”

  “He probably bloody licked it or something, come on!”

  Left alone at the scene again. But no more investigative work is to be done on the body. Sherlock has garnered what he came here for, a clue towards the identity of the killer. Now he needs to figure the next step to take. There isn't a way to find every older man with a grey cat, but perhaps he can take another road.  

  “You aren’t going with them?” John asks when the door closes. His voice is soothing and low, without a need to shout, so close to Sherlock’s face.

  Sherlock resists the ingrained urge to need to look at someone when they speak. It’s refreshing to be unbound by social convention. “No, they won’t get anywhere with museums.”

  “How do you know?” It's the perfect segue into Sherlock's next point. 

  “The killer won’t be personable, by any means. Doesn’t work in a crowded space. A man like this hid away for years after committing his first murders two decades ago. He festered and collected until he broke down again.”

  “You know the man better than he knows himself, and you’ve never met him?”

  “In a way,” Sherlock shrugs.

  John bumps up on his shoulder. His voice is bright, and for the first time Sherlock’s ever heard it, he laughs. Rugged, full-bodied, absolutely exciting. “Outstanding!”

  Sherlock’s ears burn. “You do know you say that out loud.”

  “Apologies. I’ll stop.”

  “No, it’s - fine.” Sherlock touches his sleeve for an anchor, awash in this unknown. 

   "What are you planning on, then? If not continuing with them." A beat. "Who are they, exactly?" 

   Yes. There needs to be a direction in place, a point to follow. And it exists somewhere in this house. "Mm. Feeble-minded yet highly-paid detectives for New Scotland Yard. Police." He quirks his brow, thinking. "Like... knights. Except they solve crimes, and they follow mountains of regulations."

   "Knights follow rules."

   "These are better rules, rather than courtly romance, gallantry, chivalry, and showmanship," Sherlock says, bending slightly to brush off his knees. All this shag dust and stray carpet filaments, it's a wonder the former homeowner wasn't constantly beside herself trying to hoover. "It's country regulation, with proper punishment when one breaks it."

   "Showmanship _isn't_ a rule. You travel with these men? Some don't appear so chivalrous."

   John's lack of modernization is more charming than irritating, presently. He didn't argue against the courtly romance guidelines. Interesting. Reading on the subject will have to be done. "When they need me, which is always. I've already said." Sherlock tucks the stray cat hairs into his pocket, patting it securely down. Will find a bag for that later.

   "Bears repeating."

   Smirking, Sherlock tugs on his gloves, stretching the black leather over his knuckles. He scans the room, then crosses it, aiming towards the writing desk he'd spotted in the corner upon first entrance with Lestrade.

   "She's obsessively organized," he says, unfolding the hatch. The dark wood opens, extending into the business surface and revealing a few small drawers with silver knobs. He shoves aside the padded chair. "Therefor, there will be a nod to where we should go next."

   He casts a glance over his shoulder at the door, mistakenly turning his cheek into John. At this point, Lestrade and Donovan have already pulled out of the drive and the neighborhood in search of the missing exhibit. It would do no harm to bring John out.

   In a few moments, clean-up and the barrage of photographers will come upstairs. Sherlock should be able to hear them coming up the stairs, despite the sturdy structure and the carpeting. 

   He lifts a hand to his neck, allowing John down to the desk. 

   "It's a miracle they get anything done at all," Sherlock murmurs. How on earth did they all leave without looking for a single more shred of evidence? They're only going on a few minor deductions that Sherlock made, nothing of their own invention. The lack of speed in their brains must be wholly underwhelming. 

   They didn't even bother with the desk, so Sherlock really can't be faulted for continuing on his own. A museum makes the most sense, but murders rarely follow the path of most sense. Especially when there is a magic sword and live knight figurine involved.

   Lestrade tends to become upset when Sherlock runs off, but now, Lestrade has done the running off. He can't give a lecture this time, can he?

   One more furtive look to the door. 

   Sherlock works open a drawer, John moving out of his way. Old birthday cards, memorial photographs, sympathy letters. A depressing drawer. Why would she keep memories of her dead wife in a place where she often sat, going by the compression in the desk chair's seat? His lips press together, wrestling with the influx of data without purpose. 

    He bends at the waist, poking through the storage. Calligraphy ink, aged tin boxes with paper memorabilia, a packet of collected stamps. He pulls open another drawer with a worn handle. "Ah!" 

   "What?" John asks. Sherlock slides out a pastel pink day planner, flipping open the slim book. Michaela Shadwell's name is inscribed in the 'if found' section, along with her address and mobile number. Exactly what he was looking for. Sherlock doesn't answer John directly, but the knight seems satisfied with the reveal anyways. 

  Sherlock leafs through the day-planner while John peruses the slots of the writing desk. Why can’t all victims be this organized? It would make solving their murders much easier, if markedly less interesting.

  Oh, yesterday. He flips through the last few weeks. 

  Sherlock holds up the planner to his face, ignoring the brash highlighter colours and the glittery pen in underline. He places it on the surface for John to see and points delicately to a location penciled in graphite at the edge of the paper, on the margin. A quick note to herself, meant to be erased and penned in later, a location matching to other notices in the planner. She's been there before. _A curio shop._ Central London. Sherlock recognizes the address, plots the quickest cab route. 

  “No, John, we are not going to any museum,” Sherlock says, positively thrilled and looking expectantly at John, “We’re going to a curio shop.”

  Like he’s made a decision, John nods. There's a determined line between his brow when he fixes Sherlock with a look of approval. His jaw does something complicated, a muscle jumping at the curve. “I’ll go on with you.”

  John is improbable, but suddenly not impossible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly there were so many ways to do this fic, i went with a casefic - because that's the best and i've yet to write one! enjoy my limited knowledge of swords stretched to its ends and supplemented w magic!  
> Thanks for reading and leave a comment if you feel like it! ;)  
> If you have a tumblr, reboot the post! https://fourthvvall.tumblr.com/post/185020770004/the-castle-in-the-flat-by-hardlyfair-the-castle-is

**Author's Note:**

> a years-old idea from my WIPs to maybe help tide you over as I work on the last chapter of In the Deep... more chapters will be added! and rating may change ;) happy summer!  
> few more chapters and some romance and plot on the way


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